But now the devilish old man approached Zenobia. The light was reflected in the leaf of the strange dagger he wielded. In the steel there could be seen engraved some cabalistic signs. The face of the sorcerer was tense with the evil expectation that animated it.
Full of despair, Zenobia entrusted her soul to Mitra.
Just then, the heavy door was violently opened toward the inside of the room, and fell with a terrible rumble to the floor, blowing up fragments of slabs and a great cloud of dust. A tall and strong man appeared in the vain of the door. He was a muscular giant of black long hair and vehement blue eyes that launched sparkles of ire. The torches reflected their light in the leaf of the sword he wielded.
The heart of Zenobia almost burst out of happiness. At last Conan, her champion, had arrived!
With a terrible and silent ferocity, the Cimmerian attacked the oriental necromancer. In a glance he took charge of the situation. The view of Zenobia’s body, prepared for the sacrifice, indicated to Conan that he had arrived in a timely fashion. Suddenly Zenobia raised herself of the altar, free of her chains. Then Conan saw that there no longer was his wife, but an enormous tiger. His roar echoed in the room while he jumped on Conan with claws extended and open jaws. When the Cimmerian raised his sword to behead to the enormous cat, it transformed to a green hooded skeleton. Its bony hand grasped the wrist of Conan with incredible strength.
With a fierce growl, the Cimmerian freed his weapon from the green folds of the robe, in which it had entangled itself, with a titanic blow fragmented the smiling skull in a thousand pieces. Then he noted a burning sensation in his ring finger. As if it was in flames. He saw that the magical ring shone with a reddish otherworldly brilliance that made his head ache. Conan removed the smoldering ring and dropped it to the floor. Upon doing it, he heard an evil laughter that stemmed from the sorcerer.
The khitanian remained standing, his arms extended above his head. Murmuring enchantments continuously, while dime flames shone in the lanterns. Conan, dazed, shook his head. Not yet recovered from the strong impression.
With a strange apathy he saw, all around him, a blue mist raising from the floor; with deadly slowness it wrapped him in weak spirals. Shortly after, he was completely surrounded by vapors. He tried to move, but it was like walking on cold molasses. He could barely raise his feet of the floor. He began to pant, and sweat covered his face.
The mist continued thickening. Suddenly he could see images reflected in the blue spirals. He saw old friends and beautiful women, riding knights and kings in purple mantles. Then the silhouettes transformed in old enemies, which in turn became blurry shadows. All the monsters men had feared since crawling from the sea appeared in an endless succession before his eyes, drawing closer and closer to him. Their extended claws reaching for his neck, as if to strangle him, and their burning eyes seemed to remove his soul to carry it to hell.
Conan trembled, horror growing deep within him. His muscles garroted with tremendous tension. He tried to break the spell, but his members refused to obey him. The effort of the fight developing in his mind, deep in his awareness, seemed almost unbearable. He was overwhelmed by a feeling of rout. A premonition that evil and darkness were going to succeed, and that in spite of his efforts; his bewitched soul would forever remain chained in the black abysses of hell.
Conan felt himself slowly falling unconscious, unable to avoid it.
Then, above the harmful and derisive spawns of darkness, he saw a scene that represented a great parlor.
Gigantic trunks constituted its walls, and the beams of the ceiling were so thick as four strong men together.
Under a dim light he saw some men in grey mail, who stood somberly around a throne …a throne in which a king or God of black hairs was sitting, tall, of dark eyes and severe and implacable face. The voice of the sovereign echoed in the conscience of the barbarian.
“Cimmerian!” He said “You are a son of Crom, and he will not consent you to suffer eternal damnation. Your God has always seen you with good eyes, and because of this the oriental’s black magic has no hold over your spirit.”
The God’s dark eyes shone brightly. Raising his powerful hand a light arose from it. Conan felt the strength returning to his body. The blue mist dissipated slowly, until it disappeared completely. Among murmurs of frantic terror the devils fled.
Fear reflected in the eyes of Yah Chieng. But the sorcerer raised again raised the knife of sacrifice above the figure of Zenobia. Then a heavy body fell on the sorcerer, in a confusion of moving members and folds of wide clothes.
With a powerful tigerish impulse the Cimmerian jumped on the altar. A cold, terrible whisper escaping between clenched teeth.
“Yellow dog! We meet at last!” He said in sibilant voice “The Gods have condemned you, and your black powers are gone!”
Then the barbarian pressed with deadly force the body of his enemy, Yah Chieng gave an inhuman shrill of fright.
“Do not you hear the laments of the injured and the crash of the weapons?” Continued Conan “Do not you see the flames of the fires? Witness how your evil soldiers are annihilated by the prisoners you held on the dungeons below the city, and by the people of Paikang! Your bloody empire decays, becomes ruins! And now I send you to the blackest hell, so you may rot for all eternity!”
The muscles of the Cimmerian swelled with vindictive angry strength. A horrifying click was heard, and Conan stood panting, while a corpse, fell limply to the floor.
The cimmerio had the doublet burned and torn; its back was covered with injuries and bruises and their eyebrows were scorched. But in spite of all advanced to the altar and, after being inclined, applied all the titanic force that was capable. The chains that held the woman clinked upon falling broken on the floor.
When the winners crossed the door chanting the Cimmerian’s name, they found him embracing his beloved queen with the ardor of a man that loves for the first time.
That night, for the first time in twenty-five years Conan carried out a sacrifice to Crom, the God of the Cimmerians, the men of dark scalp.
EPILOGUE
Two riders stopped their horses in the endless and dry steppe. One was a giant covered with coat of mail and helmet, and armed with a great straight sword that hung of its side. The other was a slender woman, dressed with the attire of horseback riding of the oriental nomadic women. In the right hand he seized a double curved khitanian arch. On the ground, beforet them, two inert figures lay down , around which crimson puddles of blood grew. They wore tiped helmets and dusty turbans. Toward the east a cloud of dust indicated the route their scared horses fled riderless.
“Beaters of a Turanian troop, Zenobia” said the giant in the mail-coat “Our bad fortune we should cross paths with them when our horses are tired, and still we should travel many miles to be safe. Even worse luck that one of them escaped.”
“Then we shouldn’t tarry” said the woman’s harmonious voice “We should ride so far toward the west as possible. Who knows? Perhaps we can escape still.
Conan shrank his shoulders and made his horse turn around. The short rest had revived the animals, that initiated the gallop toward the western horizon, where the mountains were barely visible, in spite of the clear air and the brilliant sun.
“Your unfamiliarity with the Hyrkanians shows” growled Conan “They are like a pack of wild dogs. Never will they give up prey, unless you kill the whole pack.”
“Perhaps the main contingent is still far away. We could reach the forests before they catch us.”
“I doubt it. The Turanian beaters are never too far of the main column. I learned their customs while serving in their rows. They ride in single-column by the steppe; they form a line when they approach their prey and, after charging with their sturdier horses, the wings advance and, after surrounding them they capture their victims.